


Scars

by NormalFreeZone



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Scars, badass stiles, cute supportive Derek, over coming sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NormalFreeZone/pseuds/NormalFreeZone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the others see when they look at Stiles' scars is pain, but to him they means something much, much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Another ficlet from my tumblr. Based off an amazing picture. So Enjoy.

Scars are a funny thing. Everyone talks about scars, tissue left behind after an injury that heals but still shows the pain. People always look at them and hiss as if they could feel whatever pain came with the wound. And with every scar that gets gawked at, someone always has to ask about it, because every scar is a story. 

Scars are a story written into flesh. That's what people think, but to Stiles they are something else. 

After two years of dealing with werewolves scars are something much different to Stiles. He can't share their stories, and because of that he's can't even remember were some of them came from. Being the only one without super human healing abilities, Stiles is the only one whose flesh documents the short history of their mismatched pack. 

He only remembers where a few of his scars came from, mostly the big ones. Oddly enough he remember the bruises more. The deep dark blues, and purples stretched across his body. Those hurt, they always hurt, and they hurt for days. Even after the bruises fade Stiles can still sometimes feel them. But he never feels the scars. Sure cuts and stabs hurt, but to Stiles, scars don't.

They don't hurt him at least.

While his scars don't hurt him, Stiles has noticed how they hurt the others. Scott always just stares guiltily at them, all of them, like each one was his fault. As if he was the one that sliced up his friend. But Scott's silly like that, and Stiles knows it. The one across his stomach is the reason Isaac has to turn his back whenever Stiles changes his shirt around him, and burn scar on his thigh is the reason Boyd always buys him a new pair of jeans every other month. Stiles has also noticed how Erica can't look at his hands. Its not like their covered in scars. It was just a broken finger, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Stiles really didn't understand what all the fuss was about. But they also didn't understand him.

In truth, when ever he caught one of the other staring sadly at the faded pain that was painted on his body, Stiles felt guilty. It wasn't their fault he got stabbed, scratched, cut, beaten, broken, bruised, or plumbed. But he could still see that the pack felt his pain even more than he did. When ever they looked at them, they didn't just see a scar, they saw their own failure. They saw their own scars written into Stiles' skin. They saw what they could never see on themselves. And that was the reason why Stiles tended to his own wounds most of the time. He couldn't bear to show them the bloody ugliness, just so they could feel it for him every time they saw him. 

To Stiles, his scars were something completely different. They were his reward. Each one a testament to his will to survive and protect the ones he loved. Ever scar was a giant neon sigh that said “I SURVIVED A MONSTER!” Some were old and faded now, but Stiles' never looked at them with sadness or regret because he got them doing something, or fighting something, that people only saw in their nightmares. 

To Stiles' his scars were badges of honor. 

They were his trophies he carried with him. Stiles didn't like to talk about them, or brag about them. But whenever Stiles' felt useless, he brushed his fingers across one of them and just thought 'I survived.' With a few he even stops and thought 'I saved someone.' He always claimed he wasn't a hero, but when his fingers brush across one of his fading mark he couldn't help but stop and think 'I'm a hero to someone.'   
It helped with the pain. Not the physical pain, but the emotional and mental pain. The constant nagging of depression and self loathing, always somewhere in the back of his mind ready to drag him under. But his scars saved him from that. Each scar reminded Stiles of how determined he was, or how smart and cunning he could be. He may not have gotten them all from being heroic, but each scar was a reminder of something good. They reminded Stiles that he had friends that loved him enough to throw themselves head long in to a fight against some horrid supernatural creature. And they reminded him that he loved them enough to do the same. 

 

Stiles didn't hate his scars, nor was he ashamed of them. Of course he wasn't flashing them around like some old war vet, bragging about his victories. But still Stiles was proud of them, and that made him proud of himself. It was the scars people couldn't see that killed Stiles slowly. The ones deep inside, plastered across his soul, but even his healing flesh wounds were slowly healing the scars inside.

In a way his scars saved him more than they hurt him. 

And no one else really understood this. Except for maybe Derek.

Stiles knew that, like the others, every one of his old battle wounds pained the alpha werewolf. But Stiles also knew that Derek was the only one who honored them, who was proud of them. Derek had no illusions about Stiles being weak. He had tried to use the whole 'weak human' thing a long time ago, but Stiles proved him wrong in every way. And now all Derek do was bow to him. Because one way or another Stiles was going to be in the fight to the bitter end. There was no weakness in the Stilinski men.

This was the reason ,that even now, Derek would let Stiles bandage and stitch himself alone. Derek knew that people hovering and trying to help Stiles would only frustrate him. 

But Derek had his own way of acknowledging Stiles' scars. He never looked or stares at them, when Stiles changed. Whenever Stiles stripped his clothes off in front of the alpha werewolf, Derek's eyes were busy looking at other parts of Stiles. It wasn't until they were close, skin to skin, that Derek would take his time making his way down Stiles' body, lips running along every piece of scarred flesh that he could find. Derek would brush his fingers, his lips, his nose over them. He would nuzzle them, lick them, love them, worship them, brush away every painful memory and only leave pleasure in his wake. Derek never touched his wounds, save for to clean blood off, or hold blood in. He ignored the freshly bandaged gashes in favor of the old wounds etched in to Stiles' skin. 

It was just something Derek did. Ever since their first kiss, Derek had made sure that no scar went unloved.

Even now, as Stiles stared at himself in a mirror over his shoulder stitching up a long gash on his arm and shoulder, he knew that Derek was just outside his window waiting. Waiting for Stiles to finish and clean up, before he would come in through the window and thank Stiles in his own ways. Sometimes there was small talk, sometimes there wasn't and Derek would get to work putting Stiles to bed. It usually all depended on Stiles'. Tonight Stiles was feeling chipper, they would probably talk, have one of their fun sarcastic exchanges as they ran over the events of the night, before they couldn't stand it anymore.

All of this just made Stiles love his scars. The honor of protecting and helping his friends, the way they reminded him he wasn't useless, and the secret caresses and touches he got from the man he was quickly falling in love with, all of it came with all the scars painted across his body. How could he not love them?

It was hard for the others to understand. So Stiles never bothered tried to explain it. They didn't need to know any ways. Each scar was for them. Each one was for the people he loved. And most of all each scar was for himself.


End file.
